56-Kit
Tonight’s a bloody disaster.
Before we even stepped onstage, the Minneapolis show went off the rails. The setlist had to be reworked at the last minute, half the songs rearranged, and the piano sections refined so I could mime along to a track. My guitar solo for False Fables was scrapped entirely.
The crowd felt miles away, every note slipping through my fingers. I fucked up the lyrics. Twice. Not because I don’t know them, but because my mind kept drifting back to Greg’s voice the night before.
“Kit can be with whoever he wants to be, but not here. Not now. On this tour, Kit doesn’t exist. Judas does.”
I hate how right he is. I hate that I let myself forget it. And I hate, more than anything, that because of my status, Carter was paid off.
He took the money and strutted away with a slap on the bloody wrist after what he fucking did. The only reason Carter was held at all is because of the restraining order violation. It isn’t enough. It’ll never be enough. I should have killed him. After they released me, I dreamt of the fight.
Every bloody punch.
Endymion was there, too, telling me to finish it, to end him. When Carter’s face vanished, and Endymion appeared in his place, I lunged for the god, hands closing around his neck. I woke drenched in sweat, his laughter still ringing in my ears. My sheets clung to me, cold and damp.
I don’t know what’s real anymore.
My fractured knuckle throbs beneath the bandage, stiff and useless, a constant reminder of what I’ve done. Every time I look down at it, a sickening mix of rage and fear washes over me. Fear of what I’ve done, and what I’m becoming.
What I’d do if it meant keeping Zach safe.
I haven’t seen her all day. Greg made sure to keep us on opposite ends of the venue, redirecting schedules, and sending me to technical meetings I don’t need to be in.
He’s right to do so; I know that. But it doesn’t ease the ache.
I turn a corner backstage, and there she is, her curls tied back, face tired but bright as she packs up her equipment.
“Zach.”
She pokes her head up, and her eyes widen. Fear, not relief. The look guts me. Turning on her heel, she abandons her camera case and paces away so fast she nearly stumbles.
“Hey!” I jog after her, catching up in a few strides.
Reaching out, I gently take her wrist. She flinches, and I release my hold, remembering Carter’s vice grip.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, voice cracking.
“It’s fine,” she says too quickly, gathering the long-sleeve’s cuffs in her hands.
“It isn’t fine.” I glance around; the hallway’s too exposed. “Not even close.”
I don’t want her to feel cornered, but I don’t want an audience. The first door I see is a supply closet. Ridiculous and inappropriate. But it’s empty, and it’s private.
“Please,” I say, pushing the door wide, “I just need a chance to explain.”
She hesitates, but steps inside. I follow, closing the door behind us.
The room smells of dust and cleaning solution.
Mops and brooms lean against the wall like silent witnesses.
She sees straight through the mask, down to the raw, trembling thing beneath.
My throat tightens, words tangling uselessly.
“Whatever you’re about to say,” she whispers, looking anywhere but at me, rubbing her arms as if to ward off a chill, “don’t. We can’t do this. Our livelihoods, my job, your job—everything is on the line, and I can’t have you risking all this for me.”
When she meets my eyes, hers fill with tears. I cradle her face in my hands and kiss her. It’s frantic and desperate; a plea, confession, and surrender. She freezes, then her hands lift, brushing the edge of my mask. Her fingertips trace the paint-stained edges as her tongue slips between my lips.
There’s no tour. No god whispering in my head. Just her and me.
“I don’t care about the risk,” I confess against her lips.
Zach goes utterly still, mouth stiff against mine. Palms flat at my chest, she pushes me back, hard. Her breath comes fast and ragged as she wipes her wet cheeks, smearing red paint across her face.
“Kit, that’s the problem.”
It slashes clean through whatever hope I have left.
She opens the door, and hallway light spills in. Then she’s gone, leaving me alone in the dark, surrounded by mops.
Shadows wail with the echo of everything I should never have said.